


Maybe We Could Find New Ways To Fall Apart

by gaialux



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Background Character Death, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Blood As Lube, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: Murphy is missing. Taken in the night by three masked strangers. Connor, dedicated brother that he is, tracks him down. But these three men are not going to give up Murphy easily.
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Maybe We Could Find New Ways To Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).



> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS/PLOT EXPLANATION FOUND IN END NOTES, SKIP IF YOU WISH TO AVOID SPOILERS.
> 
> I hope this hits your interests, flowersforgraves!

Murphy has to be here.

Connor has scoured every other building he can think these guys would take his brother to. Every quiet church, every abandoned graveyard, every warehouse floor. So far, nothing. A few homeless squatters, an odd priest who tried to usher Connor into confessional ( _forgive me father_ , he thought as he walked away, _do not think I am betraying you -- I need to find my brother_ ), numerous birds and cats making the best of the situation. This is the last building in the district he can think of that would be isolated enough for a group of men to take a hostage.

Especially one as strong and cunning as Murphy.

His heart is beating rapidly in his chest. Worse now, from the exertion of hailing cabs and leaping fences, but also a continuation from earlier. From being shocked awake in the early hours of the morning to his brother yelling, punching, screaming as he was dragged from the room. Didn't matter that Connor was on his feet in less than half a second, reaching for a gun, ready to go out blazing and swinging. Murphy was gone. As quickly and easily as a candle snuffed in wind.

But he will be here.

Connor knows it.

The entrance is large, double-doored, but with a criss-cross of thick chains padlocked in a centre section. He can bolt cut it, sure, if he finds a hardware store quick enough -- but they'd be expecting him to come in this way. Or maybe not. Maybe it's a mind game and Smecker would be a good match for them.

Or maybe Connor just needs to find a fucking way to get in there and get his brother out.

Better plan. Smarter plan. _More important plan_.

So as much as he wants to go straight in, to find his brother, to blast up the motherfuckers who have him, Connor closes his eyes for a brief moment and breathes. He can almost _feel_ his brother in there. Feel him asking Connor to find him, to help him out of this mess. He knows Murphy is also unaware of why this has even happened. Both of them are. It's not a random attack -- can't be with the life they led -- but there is no real reason behind it.

"I will kill you all," Connor murmurs when he opens his eyes again and takes in the dirty slat grey of the building. It's the mantra that gives him strength.

He circles the building. Light on his feet, staying a good distance away least a gunshot ring out. There are no signs of anything inside but that doesn't mean a thing. They could be in deeper, in the bowels of this dilapidated building, and Connor knows he will scour every inch if it means finding his brother.

It is never even a consideration.

By the time he gets back to the start he has located three doors and dozens of windows. A window might be more of a surprise, if he could pry one open, but a door would be quicker. Easier. And he wants time and ease on his side. So he goes for the door in the back, the one that is strangled by weeds and rye grass taller than Connor. Pick the lock. Hold your breath. Twist and push and press your back against the door.

Silence.

Darkness, too. What little light does come in is thick with grime from the forgotten windows. Shadows dance either due to trees or weeds or fallen powerlines Connor had seen on his round. He stays close to the wall, palms clinging, and looks around.

This is indeed a warehouse of some sort -- at least it _was_ in its heyday. Conveyor belts, ladders, large metal shelving sections that have corroded with age. He can see a few doors, offices or bathrooms perhaps, dotted around. Murphy is in one of them. The only thing that strikes Connor's heart again, made it beat in a thick, out of sync rhythm, is the lack of noise.

_Why is Murphy silent?_

Connor goes for the first door. It has a small pane up top of frosted glass; the rest of the door is chipped wood. Thin enough, Connor is sure, to kick through. But instead of going right for that, he tries the handle. It pops open and so do the noise of voices.

None of them Murphy's.

"Who the fuck--"

"Is that--"

" _Fuck!_ "

Connor presses his back against the wall, fingers reaching to his pants and where his gun is holstered. He gets hold of it, cold metal in his hands, and raises it to eye level. Steps into the room and takes in the scene in what always feels like slow motion. Looking for Murphy first, can't help himself, even though he knows the right order of procedures is to spy your enemy and close in on them quick.

 _Murphy_. On a chair, tied and blindfolded and gagged. Connor balks. Has to press down with great difficulty the desire to run over and free his brother. There are these three other people to worry about.

Time speedd up again. Connor cocks the gun and fires at the three bodies rushing toward him. One falls. A man, maybe their Da's age, with grey hair and a twisted moustache. Blood seeps from his body and pools under him. Connor cocks the gun again, finds the trigger, but one of the other men is on him. Tackling him down, face hitting peeled linoleum, breath being forced from his lungs in one long and painful _woosh_.

"Murph," he manages to gasp out and Murphy looks toward him. The one sense -- hearing -- he has left on full alert.

Murphy starts kicking, flailing, making the chair skid along the floor. Connor tries his hardest to toss his own body weight around and get these people off him but they're too fast. Too strong. His subconscious is waiting for the white hot pain of a gunshot. Of blood. Of the world turning black and death taking him. O _ur Father who art in heaven..._

None of it comes. No dark then light. No meeting of the pearly gates and Saint Peter awaiting his explanations on life. It's rough hands under his armpits, dragging him upwards. It's Murphy throwing his face and shoulders around on an old metal chair. It's Connor's heavy breaths and bursting heart filled to the brim with anger.

"Let him go!" he screams.

The bigger of the two guys -- bald head, black clothes, beady little watery blue eyes -- shoves Connor forward toward a wall. Connor's close enough he could reach out to Murphy. Wants to. To touch his shoulder and reassure him it's all going to be okay. After he's checked him over for injuries and killed these two sonsofbitches of course.

"We'll let him go," he says, a sickly grin spreading over his face as he reveals yellowed teeth and dimples that look like black holes. "Maybe. Sooner or later."

"What do you want with us?" Connor says, trying to slow his heart and mind. He needs his wits about him to figure this out. Wishes he could ask Murphy, get advice, plan it out together, but never matter. They've gotten out of things like this before. It will be okay.

Okay.

Okay.

"Plenty of things," the guy says, starting to pace. His crony keeps a hold on Connor. "Or not many things. Depends how you define _want_."

Connor wants to spit.

"We never expected someone else to show up, did we, Al?"

The man -- Al -- snickers. It's a guttural noise from deep in his throat. "The brother, huh? Beloved Connor?"

"Looks like."

So they let Murphy talk, at least at some point. Connor looks toward the body on the ground. Blood has stopped seeping, a thick and stagnant pool outlining his body, almost looking like a kid spilt paint. "You're not even going to care about your friend?"

The guy shrugs. "Loss of life comes with the business. We'll send our regards to his wife."

Connor knows he doesn't value life enough. He shoots without thinking, takes down without considering, and sleeps at night with minimal nightmares. But even he couldn't imagine being so blasé about a death of someone he knew. The idea of Rocco dying tugs at the pit in his heart, and the idea of _Murphy_ , well, Connor doesn't think he would make it through.

"What do you want?" Connor repeats.

The smile fades from the man's face. Like all his previous sick excitement has now dissipated from his body. One part of Connor is glad -- the guy doesn't deserve any happiness -- but the other feels a dawning rise of terror.

"We want to give you some choices," the man says. "Right, Al?"

"Right, right."

"We're not sure what we feel like today," the man continues. "Murder? Torture? Theft? Although it doesn't seem like you have much money, do you?"

"No," Connor says, deadpan.

"Hmm. So that removes that option. There's also one other option that Murphy has been making seem rather...intoxicating."

He spits the end of the last word right onto Connor's mouth. Tasting of tobacco and evil. Nausea rises in Connor's throat but he swallows it back down.

"Fuck. You." he says.

Back was the smile. More deadly and sinister than before. Murphy's struggles become louder, more erratic, and Connor tries to go to him. Apparently the guy isn't distracted enough and his grip on Connor tightens, holds, the circulation in his arm feeling as though it's able to be cut off or, worse, the bones shattered.

"You want to go to your brother?" he asks.

"What do you fucking think?" Connor says through teeth gritted with pain.

The pressure is released and Connor goes stumbling forward, almost falling to his knees but catching himself just in time. His arm feels tight, trapped, like the blood is refusing to move through it. Never mind. He goes toward his brother, only a primal part in the back of his brain screaming _wait, stop, this has to be a trap_.

He's able to touch Murphy's clammy skin before the two men descend on him and shove him, hard, against the chair where Murphy is trapped.

"Now," the main guy -- nameless, though Connor likes to think of him as Fuck Breath -- says. "You have your brother."

 _What the fuck do you want? What the fuck do you want?_ The question keeps going over and over in Connor's mind.

"Two choices, sweetheart," he says. "You can stab your brother in the heart or in the ass."

He doesn't think he hears him right then, after looking on the guy's face, decides it has to be a sick joke. "If you want money, I'll get you fucking money."

"We don't want money," he says. "We want you to choose."

Al reaches into his pocket. Connor clenches, ready to throw himself in front of Murphy if a gun is produced.

It's a knife. Blade toward Al, handle thrust in Connor's direction. Connor doesn't move. It's definitely a trap.

"What's your choice?" The man says. "Quickly now, or Al will make both of them happen while you watch. Can get your rocks off that way."

Murphy throws the chair around wildly, the tiniest hint of a muffled scream reaching Connor's ears. It tears him in two. His heart and stomach pounding, his mouth turning to cotton, a rush of blood filling his ears and threatening to spill from every orifice.

"Let him go!" he screams again.

"We will," the man says, his voice remains calm and level. The knife is still being offered to Connor. Would he be quick enough to grab it, stab the two men? _Please, oh God, please_. "When you choose."

Time seems to no longer exist beyond the pounding of Connor's heart and the exhalation of his ragged breaths. Beyond, Murphy still trying to escape, but his movements are those of an exhausted man now. One who has lost the fight. Who Connor has failed.

"Fine, I'll do it," Connor says, so quietly it doesn't seem to reach the room.

"What was that?" The man booms.

"I'll do it!" Connor yells. "Just fucking let him go!"

"An excellent choice." The man actually claps his hand together like a gleeful child. Connor spits, the bubbling excretion sitting on the concrete floor in front of them. "Al, get him ready."

It's like they've done this before. Trained and ready. This would be the chance, the time--

Connor gets one foot to move, the slightest readjustment, and the man tightens his grip. "Don't you fucking dare or I will end your brother's life before your very eyes."

Everything thrums in him as Connor watches, horrified, as Al manhandles his brother. In his hand, a knife that cuts right through the duct tape. _Fight back_ , Connor mentally yells. _Get away_.

The man says, "And the same threat has been made to Murphy."

Al rips off the black shirt Murphy is wearing. Tears down his pants and underwear. Forces him toward what looks as though it may have once been a metal office desk but is now made up of chipping green paint. Makes Murphy bend over. He repositions rope and tape. Holds Murphy there. Connor can't breathe.

"Batter up!" The man says.

Connor doesn't know how he manages to take a shuffling step forward. It's certainly not voluntary. Some survival part of his brain only, bore into him as a child, honed by this decided calling of vigilantism. _Protect Murphy. Protect people. Do what you have to in order to avoid death._

"It's okay," Murphy says in a voice that tells Connor it's anything but.

Murphy's skin is so much like Connor's own, but has its own pattern of freckles and scars. As kids, lying next to each other in bed, they'd trace patterns with a pen they swiped from Ma. She'd yell at them in the morning, throw them in the bath and scrub their skin raw, but they'd do it again the next night and the next. Trying to find some path, some pattern, hiding in the other. Connor presses his hands along Murphy's sides, wishes there was some way he could make this better. Make them both exist on some other plane while it happens.

"Here," the man says, bringing the knife over. "This'll help."

Before Connor can react and tackle the knife away from them, it slices into Murphy's arm. Drops of red start bubbling immediately and Murphy sucks in a ragged breath. As Connor watches, horrified, the man collects a smear of blood on his hand and shoves it over Murphy's hole. Murphy tries to pull away but it's fruitless; Al knows his knots, his tape, and Murphy moves less than an inch.

"Feel free to grab more," the man says. "Should bleed for a good long while."

Connor didn't think it was possible to feel any more sick but here he is, about to throw up onto the expanse of his brother's tanned back. He breathes but that doesn't help anything -- all he can smell was the rich iron tang of blood.

"Do it," the man says. His voice is hardly above a whisper, high pitched with excitement, vocal cords pulled tight and on display.

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

"Or you can take this knife." He holds it up, the edge glistening with blood. _Murphy's blood_. "And end it all."

There are lines in life.

The line between good and evil.

Between virtue and sin.

Between death and murder.

Between Connor taking his brother and keeping him safe.

Sometimes, especially in the lives of the MacManus twins, these lines blur.

Connor pulls his pants down. Just enough to get his cock free. He can't get hard. Can't make this happen. Can't. Can't. Can't.

Until he can.

When he enters Murphy, it's to resistance and Murphy crying out beneath the cloth gag. His throat gurgles, his breath catching, and Connor wants to cry with him. To scream and shout and attack these bastards.

Instead all he can do is close his eyes and pretend this isn't happening.

"Uh, uh, uh," the man says. He grabs Connor's chin. "Open your eyes. I want you to see it all."

Connor opens his eyes, glaring at this man, but that makes it worse. To look at the way his eyes dance with light and excitement. He looks down again. At Murphy's back. The nape of Murphy's neck. He hasn't moved yet. Can't. Won't. Only the head of his dick has entered his brother and that is more than enough to warn Connor he's about to be pushed over into a panic attack. He sees red.

_Needs to kill them!_

"How about we take off this gag, huh?" The man says. "Let you hear how much your brother loves your big, hard cock ripping him from the inside out?"

Al steps forward. His face is expressionless, but that doesn't matter. Connor will still kill him. Al reaches out a hand and yanks free the cotton filling Murphy's mouth. All Connor hears is the sob his brother drags in.

"Now say it," the man says. "Tell us how much you love it."

Murphy shakes his head. The sounds he is making are not human. It's primal pain and fear and humiliation and Connor doesn't know how he stays hard. How he forces himself to keep doing this.

"Say it!" The man yells. "Or your brother will take this blade!"

"I--" Murphy says, his mouth is filled with spit or vomit. His whole body shakes. "I love it. Love you. In me."

Connor wants to comfort him. Wants to wrap his body around his brother and hold him close, whisper that it's going to be okay, okay, okay. But how can he do it like this? How can he offer such platitudes when he's the one hurting his brother?

"Please," Connor says. "I've done it. We've done it. Just, just--"

Another smile spreads on the man's face. These looks are going to haunt Connor's dreams.

"Nobody's going," the man says, "Until at least one of you comes."

"No." Connor shakes his head. There's no way. Impossible.

"Then he dies, sweetheart."

The man is standing over them. A looming shadow, a bulge in his pants, and the only saving grace -- which really, truly, isn't one -- is that his cock stays in his pants.

"Stop it," Murphy says, his voice cracking, breaking, shattering. Tearing Connor's heart out along with it. "Stop it, please."

"I'm not doing anything," the man says. "This is all your beloved brother."

"You want me to stop?" Connor says, leaning forward, his chest on his brother's sweating back. Mouth by his ear. So close. Too close. Doesn't want that man to hear. "I will stop."

"It...it's okay." _No it's not_. "You. You're okay."

Connor sits back further up, sliding off Murphy's back. Fingertips touching the table so he doesn't fall out. Doesn't get Murphy killed. That's all this is. All that matters. Get it over with. Get them out. Get away.

Connor's eyes glaze over. His brain blanks out. The world is black and red. Rage and hate. Then, as he gets closer, his world becomes Murphy. Murphy under him. Him inside Murphy. Murphy. Murphy. Murphy.

 _Never going to let you out of my sight again, brother_.

Connor has to close his eyes as he comes. It hurts too much. Murphy is guttural under him, soundless sobs racking his body. If Connor listens closely he can hear the continued _drip drip drip_ of blood still falling from the cut on his brother's arm.

Connor pulls out. His dick leaks. His body rebels. He yanks up his pants, wipes his mouth, and doesn't know where he's supposed to look.

From the corner of his eye only he sees his brother's shaky movements to try and put himself upright. Al walks over and slices the duct tape holding Connor's arms together. He falls forward onto the table and Connor has to help him. That comes above all else. Helping his brother, making sure Murphy is okay. Murphy gives a barely perceptible move of his shoulder, like he's trying to shrug Connor off, but it's not enough to make it happen. The two men let Murphy pull on clothes with shaking hands and Connor tries so, so hard not to look at his brother's body. At the blood and bruises and remnants of come dripping down his leg.

Hates the way it makes him feel. Hates the ways it _doesn't_ make him feel that it should. That any decent person would do and feel and react.

They turn and face the two men. If Connor had any strength at all, he would tackle him to the ground, find the knife, and shove it through his stomach again and again and again until his guts were streaming on the ground.

But he doesn't. Any strength he had has been zapped away. How is he even still alive?

"Go now," the man says, disgust dripping from his tongue. Even his eyes look at them with pity. "You bags of shit."

The stumble out, Connor holding Murphy upright by the shoulders. Wants to squeeze and push him away. Wants to run.

Wants all of this to have been a terrifying nightmare.

* * *

Murphy curls his body around Connor that night, shaking. Connor knows he's sobbing but can hear nothing over the roar in his ears. The roar of shame and fear, disgust and regret.

"It's okay," Connor says. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Basically an extended summary: Bad Guys kidnap Murphy. Connor goes to save Murphy. Bad Guys get their rocks off in forcing the two brothers to fuck. Connor and Murphy have ~something~ there anyway, always lingering beneath the surface, and this gives them all kinds of messed up emotions. Character death is one of the bad guys (an OC).


End file.
